


i'll kiss your lips and i'll black your eyes

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the next battle they face Silver is going to end up aroused and dance-fighting and it'll be entirely Captain Flint's fault, the bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll kiss your lips and i'll black your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Flint helps Silver fight, then dance, then jerk off -- in that order. 
> 
> I don't know what happened to me. I've never written Black Sails fanfic before but I just finished the series last week and my friend is a dirty, dirty enabler.

Three days ago Flint had seen the Royal fucking Navy running away with it's tail between it's legs, and his blood was still thrumming with unbelievable joy. He hadn't thought it was possible to feel this happy, not since he heard the words "Bethlem Royal Hospital” out of Miranda's mouth. Since a perfect black-red hole appeared on Miranda's forehead.

The last three days had been spent resupplying, planning. Fixing all the damage to his ships and his men. Kicking himself for once again doing something he shouldn't have because of the off-chance he might die the next day.

Flint's still not sure what in holy hell possessed him to tell _Silver_ about _Thomas._ Odds are he'd be dead the next day? Christ. He's almost never dead the next day, that's not how the odds worked for him. With Miranda gone there had been no one left to look at him and see James McGraw, and that had been unfathomably lonely but also something of a relief. McGraw had been a ghost in Flint's house for too long.

But now, Silver knew of this dead man, and Flint was terrified of looking Silver in the eyes and expecting them to be searching him for some sign, some shadow, of the good man he once was. Also, Silver knew he enjoyed the company of men, and he had no idea _what_ to do with that. He suspected Silver didn't either. 

So Flint decided he would beat the shit out of him in the guise of friendship. This method worked for him all the time.

"There will be more fights in the days ahead," he said, handing Silver one of his swords. "And there won't be two lines of defense, a river, and a blockade standing between you while you reload your pistols. You need to know how to defend yourself at all times."

They were standing in the captain's quarters on the _Walrus._ There was only a skeleton crew on board, overseeing refitting from cannon damages. It was late afternoon and the golden light was highlighting Silver's incredulity beautifully.

"Need I remind you that I very recently caved a man's head in?" He held the sword limply in his hand. It swung with the swerve of the ship and tapped lightly against his thigh.

"The whole crew likes to remind me. Repeatedly. In detail." Deep, deep down, in a part of himself he refused to acknowledge, Flint was sad he missed it. Fucking Dufresne. Quietly, though, he added, "You are working with a disadvantage. You cannot simply be good in a fight, you now have to be the best. And in a head-on fight you won't be able to catch many people off guard. This won't be impossible. You just have to figure out your footing."

Silver had been stony-faced every since Flint said "disadvantage."

"Fine." His teeth barely unclenched to spit the word out. He threw the sword on a chair just long enough to whip his shirt over his head. "What?" he said at Flint's expression, which he could not control. "It's stifling in here, and I just washed it."

His hair was almost long enough to brush against his nipples.

Scratch that. This was a terrible idea. This is one of the worst ideas Flint's ever had, and he regularly had bad ideas every week.

Silver opened his arms out, sword glinting for a second in the sun streaming through the window, and raised an eyebrow.

Ten more terrible ideas just sprang into Flint's mind.

They started off slow, working on Silver keeping his feet beneath him as they circled each other, as the boat rocked. He stumbled a couple times, used to keeping a closer eye on his feet that he couldn't afford if someone was coming at him to attack. Flint reached out to steady him only twice. Both times ended with the tip of Silver's sword pressing lightly under his chin, Silver's expression clearly stating he was quite ready to draw blood. After that Flint let him stumble, let him catch himself, let him stand up again, all with his eyes trained on Flint and his sword.

They fought as the sun sank closer to the horizon, unhurried but hard.

"Since speed isn't going to be your strong suit anymore," said Flint, remembering eventually that the point of this exercise was to get Silver pissed at him so things would get back to normal, "you'll want to focus on strength, and economy of movements. Every strike should land, cut your opponent down, so you won't -- ow!"

Silver had scratched him, right above his heart. He wore a shiteating grin, the one he used to wear all the time when he was still babyfaced and significantly more foolish. Flint hadn't seen it since Charlestown and he'd found himself missing it.

"Every strike should land, you said?"

 "This is supposed to be practice!"

 "I was only following your incredibly condescending advice."

 "For once in a blue fucking moon," Flint grumbled, setting his sword down and removing his own shirt to inspect the wound. It was barely a wound, the blood had already stopped. He wiped away what little there was with his discarded shirt and turned back to face Silver.

Silver was no longer smiling.

“You’re not going to put another shirt on?” He sounded strange. “This is your room. You must have, at least, two other shirts.” 

“I _had_ three shirts. One the Royal Navy ruined, and you just ruined the second. Seeing as that leaves me with exactly _one_ shirt left, I’d rather leave it, as today is the day you finally decide to follow my instructions to the letter.”

 Silver rolled his eyes and readied his stance again. “Are you ready to go, Lieutenant, or do you need to lie down from your injuries? Should I fetch the doctor?”

 Flint glared. “It. Stung.”

 “You know what else stung? When a madman was chopping away at my left leg with an axe.”

 “So I’m never allowed to complain about any injuries I ever get again?”

"Well, as Captain and Quartermaster, the crew does expect us to give an arm and a leg in service to this ship,” said Silver, “and since I’ve already done my part…”

Flint barked a laugh, not expecting the joke. It’d been a few months, but mentioning the leg, let alone joking about it, was severely off-limits unless you wanted shit duties and a swift punch from another crewmember. Maybe Silver's blood was also thrumming from their victory over the British. Maybe it was because it’s just the two of them, here, and it felt so good to move for once where death wasn’t a probable outcome.

They parried once more, and a particularly large wave crashed into the side of the _Walrus_. Silver toppled over to the side, landing on his right knee hard. Flint didn’t help him up, but it was close, especially when Silver made that sound.

Silver was breathing hard, working very hard to not look embarrassed. Flint found his own breath a little short, watching Silver’s chest rise and fall.

“You need to get your sea legs back,” he said, forcing his eyes to meet Silver’s. “We can’t have you falling all over the place every time the wind blows.”

Silver exhales through his nose sharply. “One sea leg. One sea boot. It’s a little different now, Captain.”

“Nonsense. If that boot couldn’t work as a normal foot, why put yourself through the agony of wearing it? You just have to get used to it.”

“Well, doc,” said Silver, rolling his eyes and his shoulders in unison. “D’ye think this means I’ll dance again?”

“Of course you can still dance, it’s just going to be like learning all over again.”

“No. That was a joke, Captain,” he said slowly, like he was speaking to a child. “Because I never knew how to dance before.”

And _that_ is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. What kind of grown man doesn’t know how to dance? 

“Put the fucking sword down,” Flint said without thinking, dropping his own on his desk. “You’re learning to dance right fucking now.”

Silver’s face froze for a moment before laughing incredulously and tossing his sword carelessly onto Flint’s bed.

“Well?” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Are you going to call the rest of the men in here to form the lines? Because I honestly don’t think I’ll be jigging anytime soon.”

Now Flint felt himself freeze. Right. Because dancing usually required at least four people to be done properly, although he doubted any of his men knew how to country dance, let alone minuete. Hell, _he_ could barely do those things. What the hell was he doing?

Maybe it just seemed so wrong, Silver never dancing again. Silver _never_ dancing. Something about him, maybe the cadence of his voice, made him seem so musical. This whole thing was getting ridiculous, and he was just about to tell Silver to forget it when he remembered.

Miranda, returning home from a visit to her cousin in Vienna. The three of them in their chambers, having retired from dinner, as she showed him and Thomas the popular new dance style called the Waltz. It had taken his breath away, watching Miranda and Thomas embrace, moving fluidly across their bedroom floor, eyes locked. And then Miranda had taken his hand and showed him what to do. And then he and Thomas had a turn and the whole room had spun.

He waited, for a moment, for it to feel wrong -- sharing something with Silver he held so closely in his heart to the Hamiltons. It never came. Perhaps because he’d already shared the whole of their story with him, that Silver already knew him so completely, that the guilt never came.

“I’ll show you something else,” he said, sounding more confident than he truly felt. It had been years since he’d done this and he was already feeling pretty foolish. “Come here.”

Silver approached him wearily, but when Flint held out his right hand Silver just stared at it. “How exactly is this going to help me become a better fighter?”

“Dancing, fighting, walking upright on a ship -- it’s all about grace. Currently, you have none.” Flint smirked at the face Silver made. “Let’s try and fix that.”

Silver sighed and put his hand in Flint’s. It was warmer than he was expecting. Silver turned to face the opposite wall when Flint stopped him. “No. Wait. You--uh. You do it face to face.” 

Christ, what a thing to just _hand_ to Silver. The smile on his face rose like the sun. Flint’s own face felt hot in a way that he hoped his sunburn masked.

“Just what sort of dancing is this, Captain?” he asked slyly They were looking each other right in the eyes.

“European,” Flint said shortly. He moved their cupped hands out to a point and put his hand on Silver’s shoulder. Silver mirrored the action and Flint paused again. “No. You should. Uh. I should show you how to lead the dance. So. Just. Put your other hand on my waist.”

Silver said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and slowly let his hand drift to Flint’s waist. His shirtless waist. Jesus H. Christ, he should have put a shirt on. Why did people always mistake him for a smart man?

Flint swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. He got himself into this shitstorm of a bad idea, and like every other time he was just going to forge ahead and get it over with.

“So you move in a square. It’s very simple. You’re going to put your left leg forward as I put my right leg back. Good. Now your right leg should move to the side with mine -- Right.”

They continued like that for a few moments, Silver focusing on the instruction, Flint focusing on doing what he already knew how to do but backwards. Silver only stepped on his foot twice with the steel foot, and Flint was pretty sure only one time had it been intentional. There was at least a foot of distance between them, and it felt at once too wide and too close. They moved slowly, shuffling on the wooden floors, their feet picking up dust.

And if keeping his eyes on his feet also gave Flint an incredible view of Silver’s chest for the duration, well. It could just go on the extensive but dwindling list of secrets he took to his grave.

“This is awkward,” said Silver suddenly, loudly. “Dancing is supposed to have music, isn’t it?” 

“Well, how do you expect me to solve that?” They hadn’t stopped moving.

Silver didn’t respond, until he did. _“‘Who's that knocking at my door? Who's that knocking at my door?’ said the fair young maiden. ‘It's only me from over the sea,’ says Barnacle Bill the Sailor.”_

 Flint had been right, before, about thinking Silver to be musical. He might not have known shit about dancing, but he knew a thing or two about singing. He sang softly, slightly deeper than his speaking voice, in perfect harmony. The words and the melody didn’t match the dance at all, but Flint felt dazed as he watched his mouth move.

" _My ass is tight, my temper's raw, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor. I'm so wound up I'm afraid to stop, I'm looking for meat or I'm going to pop, a rag, a bone with a cherry on top, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor.”_

Flint’s not entirely sure what expression is on his face, but whatever it made Silver smile that slow, sly smile. He keeps singing, and it’s a terrible song, truly. Flint couldn’t tell if it was his heart throbbing or the sword cut directly above -- maybe both, a maddening itch he needed to soothe But Silver stopped watching his feet and kept moving, body fluid as he spun Flint around the cabin, like he had both limbs again.

_“I'm dirty and lousy and full of fleas, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor. I'll stick my mast in whom I please, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor. I'll eat your cakes and I'll eat your pies, I'll spin ye yarns and I'll tell ye lies, I'll kiss your lips and I'll black your eyes, Says Barnacle Bill the Sai --”_

Silver put his left leg forward faster than Flint could put his right foot back, and suddenly they were flushed against each other. Silver stopped singing but left his mouth hanging open, surprised, and it was only natural for Flint to put his own mouth there.

Flint was a planner. He didn’t just _do_ things. That was more Silver’s area of expertise, but there was something to be said about his Quartermaster’s methods, as he let go of Silver’s hand to clutch at his back instead. The hand that had been sitting on his shoulder immediately twisted into that goddamn hair. He held it loosely but it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

Silver did what he always did whenever presented with one of Flint’s more reckless ideas -- he arched into it, gave back to Flint as much as was given, eagerly and without hesitation. Both hands now gripped Flint’s waist tightly as he staggered forward, pushing Flint into his desk.

That wasn’t right at all. So Flint spun them around again until it was Silver against the desk.

Silver let go of Flint’s mouth to huff. “I thought we were done dancing around.”

Flint pushed Silver onto the desk, stepping into the vee of his legs, and bit Silver’s lip so he wouldn’t have to say this way put less pressure on Silver’s leg. Silver moaned, a shaky thing, like maybe he knew anyway and this was the only way he could say thanks.

Well, that was one way. The hands scrambling at Flint’s belt buckle suggested another. Flint leaned down and took one of Silver’s nipples in his mouth because they’d been taunting him for the better part of an hour, and Silver’s back bowed and his hand came up to press Flint’s head closer. Flint worried it between his teeth for a moment before tugging Silver’s head back by the hair, as far as it could go, and latching on to his throat.

“ _Mercy_ , Captain. _Jesus_ ,” Silver gasped, his hips stuttering an erratic beat. “So much for me taking the lead.”

Flint pulled back just far enough to say, “That song would cause even the dimmest man to mutiny,” before taking a sharp bite out the soft spot where neck met shoulder.

Silver groaned. “That is an _excellent_ song. Teaches young, impressionable virgin maids about dangerous, dirty, lustful pirates.”

Flint didn’t believe Silver had ever even been in the same room as a young, impressionable virgin maid, but he knew from experience that engaging with Silver in conversation only encourages him further and he’d like to come some time this century, so he kissed his mouth and palmed his crotch at the same time. Silver jumped up and into it. Christ, Flint wanted nothing more than to figure out how to make this man _still_ beneath him.

Flint’s pants had loosened and pooled around his knees, and one of Silver’s hands reached down and gripped Flint’s ass hard, and Flint couldn’t help the groan that escaped his throat as he felt the hint of fingernails digging into his skin. He opened up Silver’s pants and reached inside and Silver leaned away, in need of air like a man saved from drowning. Then before he could stop him Silver leaned back in, found a spot on Flint’s neck, and sucked _hard_.

Flint’s cock twitched, maddeningly close to coming right from that, and it wasn’t until he felt Silver’s teeth worrying the skin before he grabbed him by the hair again and pulled him back.

“How exactly do you expect me to hide a bruise like that?” Flint panted, still working Silver’s cock.

Silver looked at him through heavy lidded eyes, mouth hanging open, jerking up into Flint’s hand, and kind of shrugged. “Shouldn’t have cut all your hair off then.”

In reply Flint ran his thumb underneath Silver’s cock, from base to tip, letting it slip underneath the foreskin and rub precum over the head until it shined. Silver tugged Flint closer with his good leg until they were pressed against each other, chests flushed, their cocks aligned. Flint wrapped one large hand around both of them and met Silver’s eyes. Silver’s mouth opened and after all this time Flint knew that look that meant something stupid was about to come out of his mouth, probably some comment about swordfighting, so Flint again silenced him with a kiss and it worked like a charm. If he’d known this solution were possible and this effective he would have done it ages ago.

Until Silver’s hand covered Flint’s own and they started moving together, and then all they could do was breathe into each other’s mouths. Mindless short pecks to the corner of the mouth and chin, sucking on the bottom lip, rubbing stubble against stubble as their movements quickened. The noises coming out of Silver's mouth were ridiculous and non-stop, high moans and shuddering, half-formed curses. His hips rose and fell in short, almost manic bursts off the desk and it was all Flint could do to match pace with him. 

Flint thought the last time either of them had ever felt this wild, they were probably bashing someone’s head in.

Silver’s other hand clutched at Flint’s ass cheek again, hard enough to bruise, and that was all Flint needed before he came, spilling all over Silver's stomach. Flint let go of his own oversensitive cock and pressed closer, sped up his hand, and sucked fast at a spot directly below Silver’s ear. But if he had to guess, it was his fingernails scratching at his scalp as his hand stayed clutched in his hair that finally made him lose it. Silver came all over himself, come arching high enough that it hit his collarbones.

They stayed like that, frozen in that embrace, for a few moments. The only thing in the room moving were their heaving chests and the dust motes dancing in the afternoon shaft of light.

Then Silver’s hand let go of Flint’s ass and reached blindly behind himself until he found Flint’s torn, bloodied shirt. “Typical,” he said, wiping himself down. “Barely anything landed on _you_.”

"Good thing you’re here to clean up after my messes, then.” Flint barely recognized his own voice. He felt exhausted and exhilarated. He’d aged ten years but was also twenty years younger, like he always felt after one of his bad ideas actually bore something worthwhile.

Flint took a step back to let Silver stand up, although it took him a moment. The look on his face said his mind had been thrown overboard sometime back and might forever be lost at sea. It was a damn good look on him.

Overhead they heard a whistle on deck -- the night crew coming to replace them. Silver walked over to the shirt over the back of a chair and started to put it on.

“We kind of-- got off track,” Flint said, feeling the need to say _something_. That wasn’t a common feeling for him and he didn’t like it, trusted Silver to take the helm for this conversation. Flint’s knack for conversation was pretty limited to getting someone over to his way of thinking, and he wasn’t sure what the fuck he was thinking, hadn’t been sure since Silver first took off his shirt. Since Silver asked him an honest question three days ago in front of a dying fire.

“Guess we’ll just have to pick it up again tomorrow,” said Silver cheerily, fiddling with the ties over his chest but not, actually, tying them. “I should warn you, though, while I consider myself an intelligent man in certain subjects, I’ve always struggled learning physical skillsets. You know, fishing, cooking, fighting. Dancing. I require constant attention, and practice if you really want to be sure I--”

“Yeah, okay. I got it,” Flint interrupted, rolling his eyes. He leaned back against the table and folded his arms over his chest. “Same time tomorrow, then.”

Silver smiled. He looked relaxed and happy and like a little shit. Like normal. “You might want to hurry up and find that other shirt of your before we row ashore.” And he turned, Flint still cursing, and strode steadily out the door.


End file.
